


Everyday Grace

by fms_fangirl



Series: Jealous Time [5]
Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Established Relationship, Friendship, M/M, Other, Valentine's Day Fluff, Workplace Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-14
Updated: 2016-02-14
Packaged: 2018-05-20 06:43:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5995357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fms_fangirl/pseuds/fms_fangirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Undertaker has forgotten about Valentine's Day and Grell is feeling very sorry for herself.</p><p>Events from <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/4700900/chapters/10734098">The Lenten Season</a>, <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/5523752">Blessings</a> and <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/5523752">Hope Smiles</a> are briefly mentioned, but it is not necessary to have read them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Everyday Grace

**Author's Note:**

> Clarence is an original character from [The Lenten Season](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4700900/chapters/10734098) \- a retired reaper who owns a stationery shop in London.

Saturday, February 14, 1891

Grell wondered if she would ever become accustomed to seeing William smile at her when she strolled into his office. After decades of frowns and whacks from his Death Scythe, it seemed odd to see him express pleasure at her arrival. Odder still were the piles of paper strewn about his normally immaculate desk, his hastily knotted tie and hair ruffled in a way she hadn’t seen since their days in training.

“Gracious!” she grinned. “Has a hurricane blown through here?”

Adjusting his glasses, he looked uncharacteristically sheepish. “There has been some confusion in regard to tonight’s schedule. Somehow, I inadvertently agreed to allow six agents to have the evening off. It seems they have all arranged dates for dinner.”

“Well dear, it is Valentine’s Day.”

He frowned slightly. “A completely meaningless occasion, if you ask me. But I am grateful that you agreed to cover a shift tonight. I assumed you and Undertaker would have made plans.”

“We haven’t,” she snapped.

Blinking in surprise, he handed her a file. “You have three jobs. You should be back at the shop by nine at the latest.”

“Doesn’t matter. He’s not there. I have no idea when he’ll be back.”

William’s usually stern expression softened for an instant. “Grell, is there anything wrong?”

“Of course not,” she insisted. “It’s just that there was a killing in London—a prostitute murdered in Whitechapel.”

“I see.”

“Of course, everyone is saying it’s the work of Jack the Ripper,” she said dismissively, “and Sebastian and the earl descended on us yesterday morning.”

“They aren’t suggesting that you have anything to do with it, are they?”

“They had better not. Undertaker can vouch for my presence—and activities,” she added, grinning at William’s discomfort, “at the time of the murder. But he disappeared for the rest of the day; he didn’t say a word when I told him I’d been asked to work. It’s silly, I know, but I had been looking forward to today and he simply vanished again this morning with barely a word.”

“He is devoted to the boy. He cares deeply about his welfare.”

“I know,” she grumbled, “but not even a word of regret that we can’t be together today . . . ”

“You’re being very foolish,” William replied, “to doubt Undertaker after what he did for you last year. And selfish as well.”

“I agree, but love never made anyone behave sensibly. Now, let me look at these jobs.” She studied the file, biting her lip nervously.

“I’m sorry about the last one, but you will be nearby at that time.”

“It’s all right, dear. I can hardly preach to my students about our purpose here and balk at a job because it makes me uncomfortable.”

“Your students are all doing so well—even the one you had to transfer.”

“It did upset me,” she smiled. “Anthony could have become a competent reaper, but he is much better-suited to Death Scythes. He has a real gift and he is much happier there.”

“We are not brought into this realm to be happy,” he admonished, “but recognizing that a trainee’s skills are not being put to their best use is part of doing the Will of the Higher Up.” He began to pleat a paper on his desk. “And how are Oliver’s students doing?” he asked with deceptive casualness.

“They’ve settled down since the business with Gregory, thank heavens. There were one or two, who had started to fall into his way of thinking, but they hadn’t been around him long enough for it to have had that much effect. Oliver transferred one out to Auditing, I think.”

“And the rest of them?”

“Honestly William!” she grinned. “Why don’t you just ask how the two female trainee candidates are doing? For your information, both scored near the top of the class in the written exams and, from what I’ve been able to observe in the practice field, both are holding their own in the practical. I still don’t understand why you wouldn’t give me one of the women.”

“To be blunt, because you are already so unorthodox, the Council felt it would be wisest to have our first female trainees instructed by someone whose methods are a little more traditional. I had to fight hard enough to have women admitted without taking up that particular battle.”

“They’re not the first female reapers,” Grell said. “Undertaker told me they attempted to bring in women a few centuries back. It was a spectacular failure.”

“He is correct, but I believe we have learned from our mistakes. I’m sure Undertaker has also told you that training was quite different back then.”

“He did,” she laughed. “I don’t think either you or I would have survived. But it’s a disgrace it took them so long to try again. I was so proud of you when I heard how fought for them.”

He cleared his throat and adjusted his glasses. “Quite. The human world is changing at a pace we can’t yet understand. Women’s roles are changing as well and, with the upcoming global wars, the Dispatch must be prepared to meet these changes.”

Grell sighed and nodded. “It is depressing to think that in a few years we’ll be facing agents from the other branches across a battlefield. I know the Dispatches are supposed to be above politics, but . . . ” She picked up the file. “I’ve wasted enough of your time today,” she said with a smile. “Not too long ago, you would have been smacking me with your Scythe to drive me out of your office.”

“Not too long ago, you probably deserved it,” he retorted. “Er—would you like a chocolate?” He produced an elaborate box from beneath the papers on his desk and offered it.

Giggling at the sight of the heart-shaped box, she helped herself to one. “My! Don’t tell me you have a sweetheart to send you a box! Or are they from a secret admirer?”

“Not at all! I accidentally bought an extra box when I was picking some up for the staff.”

“You bought chocolates? Valentine’s chocolates for the ladies in the office? Are you feeling quite well?”

“Management pointed out that the staff appreciates small gestures. And you’re a fine one to talk! You sent flowers to them all last year. Anyhow, take the box. I don’t really care for sweets.”

“Thank you, dear. I’ll just pop in and say hello to Ronnie before I head out. Is he about?”

“He should be, but, no doubt, he’s off flirting with the secretaries,” William said, not bothering to hide his disapproval.

Grell crossed through the main office, noticing that all of the clerks and secretaries had at a least one small bunch of flowers and a box of chocolates. She stopped to chat with several and managed to keep her smile intact as they all assumed she and Undertaker had something wonderfully romantic planned for later. She was being foolish, she admitted to herself, and selfish in her resentment of the time he was giving to Ciel. But she had cherished high hopes for this, their first Valentine’s Day together. She had gone to a great deal of trouble to find him a little gift and an extravagantly sentimental card and had bought a bottle of very good wine. And he hadn’t even acknowledged the date when he left that morning—just kissed her absentmindedly and hurried to answer the earl’s summons.

At least Ronald was happy to see her when she walked into her old office. “Senpai! Gosh, am I glad to see you. What am I supposed to do with this form again?” He shoved a piece of paper at her. “I don’t know how you stood all this paperwork. I’m thinking of asking for my old job back.”

“Don’t be silly, Ronnie,” she scolded. “You’re doing wonderfully. And as for that form, it’s an accident report. Unless you’ve been hurt, you don’t have to do anything with it.”

He stuffed it back into the filing cabinet. “But I am glad to see you. I was going over to the Training building later to find you,” he said, handing her a small bunch of violets.

“Why Ronnie! How sweet!”

“It’s the least I could do. William was all set to ask me to work a double shift since he messed up the schedule and I’ve–”

“Got a date tonight,” she finished with a laugh. She offered him a chocolate.

He wolfed down several. “You know,” he mumbled through a mouthful of chocolate, “there’s a rumour going around that William bought that box for someone and lost his nerve.”

“Don’t be silly! As if William would be buying chocolates for anyone!”

“It’s true,” Ronald insisted. “He’s been awfully absent-minded lately. He’s never failed to cover a shift before.”

“That’s ridiculous! He’s just been working too hard. You know how impossible it is to get him to take a day off.”

He rubbed the back of his neck in thought. “Would it bother you if William fell for someone? You were mad about him for years.”

“Of course not! But you’re being absurd. Now, I’m heading over to my own office. Thank you again, dear. You have a lovely time tonight.”

“You too, Senpai. Whatever you and Undertaker are planning to get up to,” he grinned.

She left without replying and made her way to the Training Facility. Would she be upset if William fell in love? No! But she did admit to a slight pang, remembering the years of desperately trying to gain his affection, of becoming trapped in an outrageous persona that only excited his disgust and of killing her love for him with every swing of her Death Scythe at Madam Red’s side.

Her eyes lit on a bunch of flowers on her desk, given to her by her students the day before. Trainees received only a tiny stipend to cover necessities; she was sure that these had been purloined from a garden somewhere. But it was still more than Undertaker had managed . . .

Had he forgotten the date? The relentless cold of the past winter had kept him busier than usual, but that seemed impossible. Could it be that, like William, he thought Valentine’s Day to be meaningless and foolish? Again, reflecting on the sweetly chosen gestures and tokens of the past year, she could not believe that. She didn’t doubt his love—not for an instant, but she couldn’t quash the disappointment and depression that nagged at her.

She gloomily studied the file containing her jobs for the evening. The first two were fine, but the third . . . She hated these jobs—even more than taking a child and there was nothing to suggest that this individual might be selected to move into their world. What happened to those not judged suitable to be reborn as Shinigami? She had asked and been told that this was knowledge that had not been revealed.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a tap on her door. She looked up to see one of the female trainees. “Martina, what can I do for you?”

“I’m sorry to disturb you, Agent Sutcliff, but Agent Walsh isn’t in his office.”

She smiled at the sight of the visibly nervous, but grave young woman. Her own contact with the female trainees had been kept to a minimum—intentionally, she suspected—but a troubled student could not be ignored.

“Why aren’t you with the others? I thought they had planned some sort of outing for today.” Were the other students excluding the women? Making them feel like outsiders? She knew what that felt like.

“I chose not to go,” she sniffed. “I have more important things to do than engage in frivolity. Honestly!”

Grell clamped her hand over her mouth to prevent the laughter that threatened to spill out. “Of course, dear, if that’s what you prefer,” she managed to say, “but they will be your colleagues for many years to come. You should attempt to establish a good relationship with them.”

“I am not here to make friends.”

William was going to _love_ her. “As you wish. Now, is something troubling you?”

“I am concerned about my progress here. I do not believe I am doing as well as I ought.”

“Why would you say that? Your marks on the written exam last term were very high. Overall, you are in the top third of this year’s trainees.”

“It’s the practical. The other students and the instructors . . . ”

She understood. “You think that they are not treating you as an equal. That they’re going easy on you.”

Her stern expression wavered and she nodded.

“Very well then. Meet me at the practice field in ten minutes. I’ll give you a real workout and _I_ will not make any allowances for your form.”

Chuckling to herself, Grell retrieved a trainee Scythe and made her way outside. The girl was so serious and she wondered if she wasn’t looking at William’s probable successor.

A half-hour later, she stood over the young woman with the Scythe at her neck. She had borne her down again and again, but Martina had fought back relentlessly, defended herself ably and had even managed some credible attacking moves. “Very good, my dear,” she laughed. “You are quick and agile and stronger than you look.”

She climbed unsteadily to her feet. “But you had no difficulty bringing me down.” She tried to raise her Scythe again, but her arm was shaking with fatigue.

“Martina, dear,” Grell replied, “there is almost no one in the realm who can defeat me. I would say that, with more training, you will easily acquit yourself in combat. I will have a word with Oliver and the practical instructors that you are not being sufficiently tested and, if you like, we can work together again.”

“Grell!” shouted a voice. “What on earth are you doing?” William strode to her side. “I heard you were out in the field with a student.”

“Oh don’t fuss! Martina was complaining that no one will give her a fair test of her abilities.”

“I - I wasn’t complaining, Supervisor Spears,” she said, glaring at Grell for an instant, “I am simply concerned that I might not be able to do the work I am here to do under present circumstances.” She adjusted her glasses.

“That is quite admirable,” William said, his expression softening for a moment, “but you must not be foolhardy.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, William. Martina wants to be the best she can be. She deserves to be taught by the best,” Grell said smugly. “Run along, dear. Next time, see if you can’t take me down at least once.” She watched the girl’s retreating figure. “My word, but she’s fierce. She’ll make an interesting addition to the Dispatch when she graduates.”

“She will,” he said softly, staring after her.

XXXXXXXXXX

“Grell, my dear! What a pleasant surprise!”

“Dearest Clarence, I have a collection nearby very soon. I simply couldn’t resist the chance to drop in and say hello to my favourite retired reaper.” She threaded her way through the piles of paper and stone ink bottles strewn about the floor of the ancient shop to give the older man a hug.

“Hardly your favourite,” he chuckled, clearing out a display of Valentines from his window. “There. I can put those silly things away for another year. Did Undertaker like his card?”

“I haven’t had a chance to give it to him yet.”

“How is our friend? Busy, I suppose. I haven’t seen him in an age.”

Her heart sank at that statement. If Clarence hadn’t supplied Undertaker with a card, it could only mean he hadn’t gotten one at all. “Terribly busy,” she said with a forced laugh, “with the weather this winter and the latest murder.”

“Oh yes. Frances Coles. I read about it this morning. They say there is a very likely suspect. I’m sure Undertaker’s work must be done by now. He’s probably waiting at the shop for you now.” He grinned roguishly at her.

He wasn’t. She had left her gloves in her office and had stopped by to retrieve another pair. The shop was dark and empty.

She was being petty, acting like a spoiled child. Undertaker had battled a demon and his followers to preserve her soul, had carried her to the Seat of the Higher Up to restore her life. She didn’t require cards or flowers, hearts, chocolates, cherubs and books of love poetry.

But she wanted them dreadfully.

The day had been sunny and cold, but a thick fog began to shroud the city, obscuring the half-moon, as Grell bid Clarence an affectionate farewell and set out to her first collection. She had been mildly surprised to realize she knew this man by reputation—a furniture maker and woodcarver of some note, who had made a comfortable living supplying the burgeoning middle class of London. He had provided several specially commissioned coffins for Undertaker.

The house spoke of new prosperity and solid comfort, tending to the heavy and plush furnishings currently in vogue. Undertaker had teased her once, calling her a snob. She had smilingly agreed, pointing out that there was a vast difference between flair and vulgarity. But it wasn’t her job to judge the taste of the souls she collected even as she shuddered at the overstuffed sofas and crimson wallpaper.

Donald Banks expired peacefully in his own bed with his nephew at his side. Grell reviewed the Record carefully. Saw a man who had married his childhood sweetheart, whose life could be measured in the wood-shavings he produced. Saw that they remained childless, yet devoted to one another. Saw his grief when she died in that same bed two years earlier and watched him gently fade away. Saw his pride in the pieces he created, saw him carve numberless small animals and dolls to be donated to the Sick Children’s Hospital in Great Ormond Street and affixed the stamp, satisfied that this had been a life well-lived. His nephew seemed genuinely grief-stricken and she was glad that there was someone to mourn him.

She felt slightly better as she approached the site of her next collection—a large house belonging to one of the great mercantile families. Too often, she witnessed the pettiness, unkindness and cruelty of humans. The Record she had just viewed, a simple, hard-working man, devoted to his wife for more than forty years, comforted her. She had seen no extravagant gestures, but many years of faithful and unwavering love.

Her next soul to be retrieved was in a small room near the top of the house—not quite the servants’ attics, but not part of the family’s rooms. The room was clean and comfortable and sparsely furnished. A maid dozed, oblivious to the death rattle coming from the woman in the bed. As she fell silent, Grell released her soul. Janet Deane had been one of those unfortunate spinster poor relations, passed about from one branch of the family to another, to help with the children or to act as companion to one of its older members. Her Record revealed a life of unassuming service—not a servant, yet never quite a member of the family—always expected to be grateful and never to complain. A life spent mending gloves torn by the careless, spoiled daughters of the house, pleating lace frills for dresses she would never wear, always clad in family castoffs, always shunted to the side. A second-hand life of a woman who was always ignored.

But her Record showed that she had known love—a young man who had sailed on a whaling ship and never returned. And the memory of that love had illuminated her dreams for the rest of her life. Grell found herself hoping the young man had been lost at sea, that he had not simply forgotten his old sweetheart, that he deserved to have his memory cherished for a lifetime.

She soared east across the rooftops of London to her final job, but not even the thrill of flying through the night could dispel her gloom over this last collection or its location. Commercial Street, in the heart of Whitechapel, was far too familiar. She had prowled these streets at Madam Red’s side, had spied her for the first time from the rooftop of the Board School as she stood over the body of Mary Ann Nichols and surrendered to the bloodlust that throbbed in her veins. Became the savage freak everyone believed her to be in the delusion she had found a mate and, only a few hundred yards from where she now stood, turned her Death Scythe on her in the bitter realization that Angelina had never loved her.

Hundreds of people were crammed into the lodging houses of these streets. Grell found herself in a tiny, dank room, furnished with only an iron bed and washstand with a cracked pitcher and chipped basin. The young woman on the bed was vomiting and moaning in pain. The bottle of rat poison rolled empty on the floor. What a horrible method to have chosen, she thought, watching her convulse in agony. Finally, she was still. Grell watched the Record, made the special notations required under the circumstances and gladly fled the stench and despair of the doss house.

Blindly, she made her way back to the shop and let herself in. It was dark and cold. She lit the lamps in the rooms she and Undertaker shared, kindled a fire and sank into a chair. The girl had been pregnant. Seduced by her employer’s son and turned out onto the streets. Pulling her coat around herself, she drew her chair closer to the fire and stared into the flames, reflecting on the Cinematic Records she had viewed.

“My dearest,” a voice startled her out of her thoughts, “are you all right?”

“Oh darling!” She flew from her chair into his arms. “You’re back! And you’re cold as ice.”

Grell pulled him across the room and pushed him into the chair. Undertaker’s normally pale skin was reddened with cold, his robes were sodden and icy around the hem and he looked fatigued to the bone. “You sit here,” she ordered and knelt before him, busying herself with the many buckles on his boots. Finally, she succeeded in pulling them off.

“Put your feet up on the guard and warm them up a bit. I’ll make you a cup of tea with a drop of brandy in it.”

“Thank you, my dear,” he murmured, letting his head fall back.

She hurried to the kitchen and put the kettle on. He looked so cold and tired. How many evenings had he welcomed her with a hot drink and a warm embrace when she had returned cold and wet and weary? Spooning tea into the pot, she thought again about the Records of that evening, of faithful love, lost love and love scorned and knew she didn’t care about flowers and candies and extravagant cards.

While the tea steeped, she set a tray, taking down the rose-patterned tea set he had bought for her because he knew she liked pretty things. She set out cups and saucers and opened the biscuit tin and found . . .

Every biscuit in the tin was heart-shaped.

She put them on a plate and carried the tray back to the sitting room.

“Thank you, darling,” she said softly. “They’re lovely.”

“Oh! You found them,” he said. “I had planned to have a nice little tea waiting for you today, but then you said you had to work and with the murder and all . . . ”

She passed him a cup of tea. “I heard that they have a suspect.”

“They do, but it is the wrong man. The police are about to arrest him. Sebastian and I have spent all day trying to find witnesses.”

“Why should Sebastian care if an innocent man is arrested?”

“The boy ordered him to bring the true killer to justice. If he allows an innocent man to be convicted, he will be in violation of their contract.”

Grell crouched at Undertaker’s feet and laid her head in his lap. “I’m a spoiled, selfish beast. I spent all day feeling sorry for myself while you were working to clear an innocent man.”

He caressed her hair. “My dearest, I am so sorry to have disappointed you today. I had hoped to make it special for you.”

“You mustn’t worry about that,” she insisted, looking up at him. “Now, tell me, have you found witnesses? Who is the man they are about to arrest?”

“His name is James Sadler. He was a longtime client of the murdered woman, Frances Coles. They spent the day of the 12th together, but, sometime late that night, they quarrelled and parted. She was last seen around 1:45 in the morning of the 13th by another prostitute, who said she was in the company of a violent man. Her body was found about a half-hour later. A man known as Jumbo Friday claims to have seen Coles with a man who looks like Sadler shortly before her body was discovered and another man, named Duncan Campbell, bought a knife, which he says had blood on it, from Sadler later that morning.”

“Oh dear!” she said. “Things don’t look too promising for poor Mr Sadler. What have you and Sebastian discovered?”

“A police officer, a Sergeant Edwards, encountered Sadler at about two in the morning. I was able to speak to him today. He insists that Sadler was dead drunk and a lodging house keeper turned him away at three. She says he could barely stand. It makes it highly unlikely he was in any state to slit a woman’s throat, especially since the knife he sold to Campbell was so blunt as to be useless.”

“Aren’t you clever to have found all that?” she said admiringly.

“Much of it was Sebastian’s work. He has methods and resources I don’t claim to understand. My part had more to do with persuading the lodging house keeper to speak to the police.” He sighed. “People in that part of town don’t have much use for the law. I am afraid I will have to go out again tomorrow. Sebastian has located Jumbo Friday. We are going to question him about the couple he saw.”

“Of course you must. But not until you’ve had a good night’s sleep. I’ll cook you a proper breakfast tomorrow morning.”

“And Ciel is exerting his influence to see to it that Coroner Baxter handles the inquest. Wynne Baxter is fair and thorough and will not allow a hasty judgement to be made.”

“Or,” she said with a grin, “I could pop back to the realm and look up Frances Coles’s Record and learn who the true killer is. Save time all around.”

“Which would result in very severe punishment for us both, my dear. You know we are forbidden to interfere in that way. You don’t want to be demoted to a pen knife, do you?” he chuckled.

“You’ve never been tempted? What about Ciel? If you or I were to discover his parents’ killers, you could use that knowledge to foil the contract with Sebastian. I’ve been demoted and disciplined before,” she said with a shrug. “I don’t mind.”

Undertaker pulled her onto his lap. “And now you are respected and liked. Your students love you and even William regards you with affection.” He tipped her chin up with his forefinger and peered into her eyes. “I will not allow you to spoil that.”

“Not even for Ciel? I know how much you care for him, how much you loved his father.”

“I have thought about it,” he admitted, “but you must not bear any blame when the time comes for me to face Sebastian for his soul.”

“And, as I told you at Christmas, when you do, I shall be at your side. For Madam Red’s sake.”

“When the time comes.”

“Now, darling” she said, climbing from his lap, “you mustn’t feel guilty, but I did get you a card and gift and I would like you to have it.” She disappeared into the bedroom and emerged with a small package.

Undertaker smiled at the absurdly lace-covered card, decorated with flowers and a small red-clad figure in the centre, unfurling a banner that read, “Thy love gives me hope for life.”

“Clarence made it specially for me and he helped me to find this.” She handed him a book. “It’s the world’s oldest joke book. It’s called _Philogelos_. It means love of laughter. The jokes aren’t that funny, but I thought it might amuse you.”

He leafed through the pages. “You’ll have to translate them for me.”

“I haven’t studied Ancient Greek since I was in school, but . . . ” She took the book and scowled at one of the pages for a moment. “‘A foolish student went swimming and almost drowned. Now he swears he will not get back into the water until he knows how to swim.’ Or ‘A Miser writes his will and names himself as the heir.’”

He laughed quietly. “Thank you, my dear. I do feel dreadful that I neglected visiting Clarence until it was too late. Business has been so heavy, but I had intended to go yesterday.”

“It doesn’t matter. Truly! I _was_ disappointed and upset earlier, but no longer. I don’t need a card and the rest of that falderal.”

“Then I guess you don’t want your gift,” he said with a grin.

“Oh!” she said, “I really am horrible. Thinking nasty things about you all day long.”

“Of course you were distressed. I wish I could have given you the day you had been hoping for.” He rose and retrieved a key from his robes, which he used to unlock a small box on the bookcase and handed her a velvet bag. “I spotted this trinket a few weeks ago. It seemed suitable.”

Grell shook a black onyx watch fob, in the shape of a heart from which dangled a red garnet drop of blood, into her hand. “It’s beautiful,” she breathed. “Just perfect.”

“I don’t have much to give you beyond this blackened old heart of mine, but you are my very heart’s blood, my love.”

She fastened it to her watch chain. “It’s gorgeous! I’ll wear it forever.” Rushing into his arms, she covered his face with kisses. “I don’t deserve you. You don’t deserve to be saddled with someone like me. I do adore you so.”

He kissed her deeply. “And soon we’ll find a way to make up for today. Whatever you like.”

Pushing his hair back, she peered into his luminous eyes, which never failed to make her grow weak with longing. “Would you come to the realm with me for a day? I love our little home here and I love living in London with you, but we cannot go about together here. I want to parade around in public on your arm.”

“If that is what you wish,” he said, barely restraining a yawn.

“But you’re so tired,” she murmured, tracing his scars with her fingertips. “Go to bed. I’ll join you in a few minutes.”

He nodded and kissed the top of her head. He was so weary, she thought as she carried the tray to the kitchen and banked the fire before joining him in the bedroom. She undressed quickly and slipped into the bed, where he gathered her into his arms.

“Dearest Grell,” he whispered. “Happy Valentine’s Day. I’m sorry–”

She placed her fingers over his lips. “Hush darling! Not another word about it. True love is found in the everyday—when you let me serve tea in silly, flowered cups although I know you prefer those ugly beakers or when you rub my feet when I’m cold and tired. We don’t need a special day to mark it. You spent this day doing good work—saving an innocent man. I was a selfish child today, but I never doubted your love. Not for a single moment. It surrounds me always.”

“Always,” he mumbled, pulling her closer.

His breathing grew deep and slow and she knew that he slept. Undertaker’s love was her saving grace. A gift she had done nothing to deserve, inexplicably bestowed upon her by the Higher Up. So much of what she saw, as in the Records of that evening, was mundane, ordinary or tragic. The old man who gently cared for his dying wife, the lonely spinster who slept with a handful of tattered and misspelled letters under her pillow or the desperate young woman, with no place to go, who ended two lives. They were taught to disdain humans. Why? Had they not all lived human lives at one time and left them when the pain became unbearable? But she had learned to view the Records with tenderness and compassion and had learned that she was fit to be a Shinigami because she knew how to love.

And she had learned these things from Undertaker, who had taught her that there was no currency more precious than laughter, that every soul must be held dear and cherished, who, in loving her, had allowed her to love and accept herself. Who had made her an instrument worthy to serve the Higher Up and earn redemption.

There were so many everyday occasions of grace—moments to be treasured. Such as catching William stifling a yawn during an interminable meeting with Management and his sheepish grin in her direction, the odd, shared moment of laughter with Ciel Phantomhive at Christmas or offering encouragement and support to a student that day. Instances of joy, usually overlooked or ignored.

They were sentenced to an eternity of death so that they might regret the sin of turning their backs on life. They expiated their sin by passing judgement on others. Some called them gods, but they were the servants of the Higher Up and the price of their redemption was to learn of laughter, joy and love.

And on the day set aside as a celebration of love, Grell nestled close in Undertaker’s arms in the knowledge that she had been given a love that was eternal.

**Author's Note:**

>  _Philogelos_ is a book of jokes from the 4th century. The jokes above are from the collection.
> 
> James Sadler was arrested for the murder of Frances Coles, but was cleared by evidence presented by the witnesses mentioned above and through the work of Coroner Wynne E. Baxter. Her murderer was never discovered, but I have no trouble believing that Sebastian would have found him and brought him to justice in his own fashion.


End file.
